A Perfect World

She stands staring into the moonlit sky,
Loving or loathing, we would never know.
Living in the false world that loved her,
Dying in a cold reality.
Tears glisten in her once beautiful eyes,
Her spirit cries, yet nobody knows.
Softly she cries in her cold dark prison,
The needle slowly washing her life away.
There she stands, contemplating her existence;
She wonders, “How much blood is in these wrists?”
Was this pseudo-perfect world ever real?
She wonders… “How will this cold steel feel?”
The tiny blade slices through her veins,
A bright red river of blood flows to the floor.
Fear of her impending death floods her soul,
Her only comfort is her pain.
She slowly realizes what she has done,
Too late; Her end has come.